We link our minds
you are our mother
Direct us to the sun
Art, Love, Music, Rebel
a Warrior, eyes open
Wide mouth muse, give us our religion
Moon salutation, give us new praise
Reconnect, Brothers
Sisters, Reconnect
All the people of the earth
come greet your creator
The sun made stars on her cheeks
and eyes as dark as her skin
Sweet fire of the spirit
you give us rebirth
you give us ***** baptism
Shake free your slave name
follow the beat of the drum
the universal rhythm
She screams and blood runs hot
She lowers herself to the ground
She stand high with the masses
A teacher of humanity
of jazz and blues
hip hop rimshot soul
Culture that may not be ours
Still welcomes you
if you learn to feel

Everything she said hit his eardrum
like a rimshot. Maybe he was losing
his hearing or she was just losing
his attention. Dinner conversations
across a two foot table flew past
him like houseflies. With her soft,
blonde hair blanketing his collarbone,
her mouth seemed to pantomime
more the closer he leaned in.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 20, 2019)

“Everybody who likes to make a Plan B,”
the moderator said, “stand over here.
And everybody who doesn’t like Plan Bs,
stand over there.

There were two groups of us:
half the department on one side;
half the department on another.
Our directors where both on the same side.

So the moderator asked them,
“Why don’t you like to make Plan Bs?”

And the head of marketing said,
“I don’t like to make Plan Bs
because plans never work out.”

I really wish I could add a rimshot to this poem.

I want to scream,
Twist and shout like a primal pop hit.
An atomic tango plays in my head,
Angry, loud, hot.
My lead heart wants to
Fall             out, weary from the Saturday night fever.
COME ON, BABY, DO THE LOCOmotion.

Wait. Don't let the chaos reign.
                                                     Contain it.

A drumline rolls  and  then the rimshot and his face
Doesn't                      go                                         away.
Is he on the dance floor where I need to
SLIDE TO THE LEFt.

Stop. Good things come to those who can
                                                                       Why?

The love hurts a
                            downpour a flooD.
the music is so loud the fear the anger the luv luve love
gentlehearts in need of
WELL UR WALKIN ANDA TALKIN

Conversation at a bar:
Joe- “I had to make a Citizen’s Arrest last week”
Bob- “Really?  What caliber did you use?”
     ljm

This runaway train is nothing
More than a ticket home
The forgotten masses
Were given
Passes
For a
One way trip
Alone
When asked about the signs
That said the tracks were designed
With care
A burly man shrugged
I don't know
But
I will tell you this
He said with a grimace
His hand clutched to his chest
One knee hit the ground
The other in time
His head
Was the the rimshot I heard

Drums are drums. beats me…. but they over-pray for rain. nuff said.
they sing in the choir of my invisible. but not so much
where i contain my rhythm where my loving heart is beating music to death.
Drums keep coming like Always.
why do I conquer sleep with poetry? how does it end?
it never does what you want
but You want IT to do.
you want it to slather the skin of the future
to get past the gathering of lonesome
and no other thing can rimshot
your quiet.

You say I say
my wife

told me to stop
impersonating

a flamingo
I had to put my foot down

you see a sad face
but it's only a facade

I went shopping for some camouflage pants
but couldn't find any

the tears flow in puddles
but they are not that of a clown

why

you ask

because he already died
laughing

(rimshot)

the last time I heard that one
cars had fins

and scales

(honk honk}

I was wondering why the frisbee
kept getting bigger and bigger

and then it hit me
I keep staring at the phone

hoping you will call
and explain why you left

all those years ago

whit howland © 2021